


Conduct Yourself Accordingly

by cafecliche



Category: Havemercy - Bennett and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafecliche/pseuds/cafecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regarding Balfour's somewhat rocky start with the Dragon Corps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conduct Yourself Accordingly

There was, it seemed, a reason why a large dumpster rested directly below one of the second story windows.

"No. _No_. No, no, no, no, no…"

Was what Balfour would have been saying had he not held a single glove between his teeth as he knelt among the trash and dug desperately for the other. It came out as an indistinguishable, primitive-sounding chant.

It had to be in there. He had watched it go out the window. Gloves did not simply dissolve in midair.

Just as he straightened and sank back onto his calves, utterly defeated, when a hoarse voice asked, "Lookin' for this, kid?"

The glove between Balfour's teeth didn't quite muffle his undignified yelp; he hadn't even noticed the man leaning not two feet away from him. (In Balfour's defense, he blended in with the garbage rather well: he was wearing what looked like a stitched-together tablecloth.) The man held a white glove aloft and repeated, "Kid. This yours?"

Balfour at least remembered to remove the glove from his mouth before muttering, "… oh. Oh, yes. Thank you so much, I… I'm very sorry. To have bothered you at such a late hour."

The man eyed him for a long moment, his gaze resting on Balfour's bare feet, before sighing and removing the boots he wore. "Guessin' these are yours, too. Found 'em last night. Too small for me, anyway."

Balfour was being pitied. By a man wearing a tablecloth. He swallowed hard. "I. Yes. I'm so sorry," he kept babbling as he put his boots back on. "I'm really so sorry."

The man squinted into the dark. "… you got blue on your face."

"… yes." Balfour hung his head. "Yes, I know."

***

In his weaker moments, Balfour would mutter to himself that he inherited a very troublesome thing.

Of course, he'd instantly take it back, mentally apologizing to whoever might have been listening. It wasn't as though he believed that his brother could hear him, not necessarily, but he wasn't prone to such petty, childish thoughts. This wasn't his brother's fault.

And it wasn't as if he disliked the idea of the Dragon Corps, either. He'd even idly, even wistfully wondered sometimes what it might be like. But what he hadn't taken into account was his esteemed colleagues.

("Not too much longer 'til he quits," he'd heard one of them snigger as he carried in his gloves and boots. "Yellow little bitch."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'green.'"

"Eh?"

"You know. 'Yellow' means cowardly. 'Green' means inexperienced."

"Yeah, that's what I meant. Cowardly."

"Really? I think 'green' would be much better suited-"

"Raphael, do I look like I give a fuck what color he is?")

He couldn't tell his parents: Mother would cry, and Father would insist that he was merely being pessimistic, that this was how real men behaved. None of his acquaintances were particularly equipped to handle this kind of situation. And he certainly couldn't air his grievances to anyone in the Dragon Corps - the only one who showed him any modicum of kindness was Adamo, and Adamo was not the sort Balfour could spill his heart to.

That only left her.

"And so you've come to me again?" Anastasia asked with a flick of her tail. "You're aware that I cannot help you, and yet, you came again anyway."

If a dragon's personality mirrored the magician who created them, Balfour thought he could imagine what Anastasia's creator was like: he had only ever spoken to one magician in his life, at one of his father's parties. At the time, he had felt sorry for the man after noticing the other party guests giving him such a wide berth, and had gone to keep him company. He then found himself listening as the man, completely blank-faced and calm the entire time, explained that legalizing human vivisection would lead to many scientific advancements. Anastasia's creator, in his mind, was something like that. Possibly even that man himself.

But all the same, she was the closest he had to civilized conversation.

"I never said you had to help," he said morosely, taking his usual seat. "I just need to talk to someone. That's all."

She seemed satisfied with that for all for two seconds. "… but nothing comes of that," she mused. "I would understand if you wanted advice, as then you might be able to reach a solution for your problem, but by talking to me, is anything solved?"

"N… No, I suppose not…"

"So even you admit that your logic is nonexistent?" she said, with more than a hint of triumph.

Balfour sighed and gave in. "Do you have any advice?"

That seemed to pacify her. "Hmm." She was silent for a beat. "Perhaps you need to assert your dominance."

"My…" Balfour tilted his head, "dominance?"

"Yes. The dominant males victimize the weaker ones. Isn't that true of every animal?"

"I'm not sure about that," he mumbled, deciding to ignore the part where she called them 'animals.' "What if they just laugh and throw something else out the window? They do that, you know."

"Well," Anastasia said, "if that happens, it's because you did something wrong."

Balfour hung his head. "Thank you."

***

Next, they threw his entire wardrobe out the window.

Balfour emerged from the shower to find that not only had the outfit he'd laid out been stolen, but so had every piece of clothing he had ever owned. And he supposed they wanted him to feel lucky that they'd left a towel.

Tying said towel tightly around his waist, Balfour marched in the direction of the raucous laughter, planted himself directly in front of the most dangerous-looking of them, and shouted, "I feel sorry for you! Because I have principles _and you don't_!"

And for a moment, it was Balfour's victory. At least, for the first time since he'd joined the Dragon Corps, his comrades were stunned into silence.

***

"So?" Anastasia inquired with utter confidence as he walked in that night. "It worked, didn't it?"

Balfour fixed her with a mutinous glare. "They threw _me_ out the window."

"… you," she said slowly, "out the window."

"Yes, out the window," he fumed, feeling as if he might cry, "all because you—"

He was interrupted by what was unmistakably a snort of laughter.

Balfour took a moment to stare at his uncontrollably snickering dragon, then sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. Apologies to his big brother and whoever else was listening, but he had inherited something _very_ troublesome indeed.


End file.
